‘Will you be back?’ asked the bookkeeper, noticing that he had put on his hat.
For a moment, Alves thought of inviting the bookkeeper, but he feared that Machado might be offended at knowing that his place had been so easily filled.
‘I won’t be back. If Senhor Machado should by any chance come in—it’s unlikely—but if he does, we are expecting him at seven, as arranged.’
As he went down the steps, he felt as happy as if he had just been married. With the heat, he had an intense longing to go home, to put on his linen jacket and slippers and stay there, waiting for dinner, enjoying his own place, the movement and company of his lovely Lulu. And in the wave of happiness that swept over him, he had a bright idea—to take Lulu a present. He thought about a fan and then decided on a bracelet that he had seen in a jeweller’s shop window a few days earlier: a golden serpent with two rubies for eyes, biting its own tail. And this present had a special significance: the serpent symbolised lasting continuity, the sequence of happy days, something that goes on endlessly turning in a golden circle.
His only fear was that the trinket would be too expensive. But no, only a fiver, and as he examined it, the jeweller told him that he had just sold another such to the Marchesa de Lima. He hesitated no longer but paid at once and when he had gone a few paces down the street, he stopped at a shady spot, opened the box and gave it another look, so pleased was he with his purchase. And as so often happens to someone giving a present, he was overcome by emotion. . . like a door opening into a man’s egoism and innate greed, and through it a broad tide of latent generosity sweeping in. At that moment, he would have liked to be rich, so as to be able to give her a diamond necklace. For she deserved it. They had been married four years and never had there been a cloud between them.
The moment he had first seen her, one evening in Pedrouças, he had worshipped her; but he could now admit that he had at first been overawed by her. He had thought her proud, exacting, aloof. All because of her lovely figure, her big dark eyes, her erect bearing, her crisp wavy hair. . . But in that magnificent body of a barbarous queen, he had discovered the heart of a child. She was good, charitable, lighthearted, and her disposition was as placid and gentle as the limpid surface of a summer river.
Some four months ago, for a brief while, she had shown some depression, a little melancholy, a touch of nerves, so that he had wondered whether. . . But unfortunately, it was not that! It had been nerves. It had passed and a reaction followed—never had she been more tender, so happy as in the recent past, filling him with such contentment.
And beneath his sunshade in the burning heat, as he climbed up New Street at Carmo, all this was dancing merrily in his heart. At the top of the street, at Mata’s restaurant, he stopped to order a fish pie for six o’clock. He also bought a cold ham and looked around to see what else he could take, eager and happy as a bird that is furnishing its nest. Then he climbed the Chiado. He stopped for a moment to look at a poet and historian, a celebrity, who wore an old silk jacket and straw hat and was at that moment chatting at the entrance of the Bernard, about to blow his nose with his enormous flowered handkerchief. Alves admired his novels and liked his style. He then bought some cigars for his father-in-law, for after dinner. Finally, he went down the Post Office steps which glittered in the sunlight, dusty and dry. In spite of the heat, he walked quickly, fingering from time to time the box with the bracelet, which he had put into his jacket pocket.
He had reached São Bento Street, a few steps from home, when he saw their servant girl, Margarida, waiting at the confectioner’s counter. He at once realised that Lulu had not forgotten the happy date, their anniversary; Margarida had been sent to buy cakes and pastries.
In a couple of paces, he entered his own door. It was a building of two storeys, painted blue, hemmed in between two tall buildings. He occupied the first floor, and was not on good terms with his neighbours above—noisy, common people—and did not like their sharing the comfort he had brought into the entrance hall, when at Lulu’s request he had had the staircase carpeted. But he had not regretted it; it was always a pleasure, on entering the building, to feel beneath his feet the carpet covering the stairs, giving him a feeling of solid comfort. All this helped his self-esteem.
Upstairs, the maid Margarida had just returned and left the door ajar; deep silence reigned within the house; everything seemed to be asleep in the extreme heat of the day. A strong glare came from the skylight, and the bell-pull, with its scarlet tassel, hung motionless.
Then he had an absurd idea, like a playful bridegroom—to go, step by step, into the lounge and surprise Lulu, who at that hour would normally be dressing for dinner. And he was already smiling at the little cry that she would give, perhaps in her white skirt, her lovely arms bare. . . The first room was the dining-room which led, through two curtained doors, to her boudoir and the drawing-room. He went in. On the carpeted floor, his light summer shoes made not the slightest sound. Everything seemed deserted, in a silence so complete that he could even hear the sound of frying coming from the kitchen and the canary hopping about in its cage on the balcony. He went towards the boudoir curtain and, smiling a little smile, was going to draw it and surprise her, when there came from behind the half-drawn curtain of the drawing-room a slight noise, indistinct, something of a sigh, a throat being cleared. Hearing her there, he turned, peeped in. . . And what he saw—good God!—left him petrified, breathless. The blood rushed to his head and so sharp was the pain at his heart that it almost threw him to the ground. On the yellow damask sofa, fronting a little table on which there stood a bottle of port, Lulu in a white negligee, was leaning in abandon on the shoulder of a man whose arm was around her waist, and smiling as she gazed languorously at him.
The man was Machado!
2 As the curtain moved, Ludovina had seen him, and with a cry, instinctively jumped up from the sofa. Alves heard the cry but was quite unable to move. He found himself slumped, he knew not how, in a chair beside the door and he was trembling, cold all over, yet shaking as in a fever. Through the tumult of the fever, which filled his head and left him bereft of thought, he heard the turmoil going on in the drawing-room, heavy footsteps pacing the carpet, whispered words anxiously exchanged. . . There was the sound of the latch on the door leading to the staircase, then silence. Then the thought that the two of them had fled restored his strength, anger possessed him, and with a leap he burst headlong into the room. But he stumbled over a fox skin which adorned the doorway and went sprawling ridiculously on the carpet. When he got to his feet, his fists clenched in fury, the curtain at the door to the staircase was swinging to and fro in the breeze: there was no one in the room.
He ran to the landing; with its refined air of middle-class respectability, the staircase descended beneath the bright glare of the skylight. Then he dashed wildly to the window. Along the street outside, with cowardly steps, Machado was taking himself off, his sunshade in his hand. So where was she? Turning round, he saw the maid, Margarida, in the middle of the room, bewildered, with the box of cakes in her hand.
‘Where is she?’ shouted Alves.
At first, the poor creature did not understand, but suddenly she dropped the box, lifted her apron to her eyes and burst into tears. He thrust her away, almost threw her to the floor, and ran to the kitchen. With the door closed, the cook, singing loudly as she scaled the fish, had heard nothing, knew nothing. So Alves threw himself against the door of Ludovina’s room. It was locked.
‘Open, or I’ll break in!’ he cried.
There was no reply. He put his ear to the door panel; from inside came a quiet sobbing, a murmur of anguish and terror.
‘Open or I’ll break in!’ he shouted again. Filled with thoughts of bloodshed and death, he threw a punch at the door, as though he were beating her.
From within, a distressed voice answered with a beseeching cry:
‘But do not hurt me!’
‘I swear that I will do you no harm. . . Open! Open!’
The key turned. He burst in; Ludovina, in her magnificent white peignoir, took refuge behind the bed, wringing her hands, her eyes wide open with fear and full of tears.
And then, face to face with the sobbing woman, his anger abated, he stood there, his throat constricted, staring madly at her and almost weeping too. She took two slow paces towards him, her arms outstretched, and her voice—her whole being—trembled as she cried out, through her tears:
‘Oh, Godofredo, for your own sake, forgive me. I have done no harm, and it was only the first time. . .’
His voice choking, he could only mutter through clenched teeth:
‘The first time. . . The first time. . .’
His rage increased, burst out in a roar:
‘And even if it were the first time, why should there be a first time? What infamous behaviour—and with him! I ought to have killed you! Go away, get out of here, leave me, you creature! Go away, go away!’
She left the room, weeping desperately. Then, turning round, Alves noticed the cook at the door into the passage, peering inquisitively, excitedly, and behind her, more in the shadow of the corridor, Margarida, upset and cowering, but peeping nevertheless.
‘What are you two doing here?’ he shouted. ‘Get back to the kitchen! One sound from you and you’re both out!’
And he slammed the door, went on furiously pacing the room, where the double bed, with its pillows side by side, showed its whiteness. And through the blood that was pounding in his head his thoughts were beginning to sort themselves out. He decided to fight Machado in a duel to the death; and, as for her, to send her home to her father. He also considered sending her to a convent, but it seemed more dignified for himself, more degrading for her, to go and hand her back to her father. When he had weighed things up, and decided on these two resolves, his extreme rage subsided.
Now, with his hard and sombre feeling of grief was mingled the need—imperative, cold and penetrating—to avenge himself. . . And the house seemed once more to be sleeping in the sun, holding in its atmosphere only the silent heat of the anger that had passed.
In front of his mirror, Alves tried to compose his appearance, even adjusted his cravat, and pushed open the door into the dining-room. There she was, sitting in a chair against the wall, her handkerchief in her hand, weeping softly and, between the tears, blowing her nose. Her lovely black hair was still held in a red hair net, and her negligee which she had loosened showed a touch of the lace of her bodice, a hint of the whiteness of her bosom. He did not like to see her weeping. Cold and hard, he looked towards the window, as he said:
‘Get your things ready to go home to your father’s.’
Keeping his eyes turned towards the window, he noticed that the gentle weeping behind him had stopped, but she did not answer him. He was waiting for an appeal, a cry of friendship, a word of regret: but all he heard was the blowing of her nose. So again he turned more aggressive.
‘In my house,’ he went on, still facing the window and in a biting tone that ought to have burned her up, ‘I want no prostitutes. You can take everything. . . Take away everything that is yours. But get out!’
He turned away, went and locked himself in his study, a sort of small recess in which there was only a desk and a bookcase. He sat down, took out a sheet of paper, put the date at the top, his hand trembling and making his fine business handwriting shaky. He was in doubt whether he ought to say ‘My dear Papa’ or merely ‘Dear Sir’ and he decided on the latter form, for their whole relationship was now at an end; now he had no family. And faced by the blank white sheet of paper, he went on thinking, turning over in his mind the thought—now he had no family. Deep sadness seized him, an immense feeling of self-pity. Why had this happened to him—so decent, so hard-working, so much in love with her? His eyes filled with tears. But he did not want to upset himself, he wanted to write his letter coolly and quickly. Yet, as he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, he came upon a box, the box with the bracelet! He opened it and for a moment examined it in its silken nest, the golden serpent with its ruby eyes, winding itself round, biting its tail. So this was the beautiful symbol of the eternal succession of happy days, one following the other like an endless golden circle. He felt a burning desire to humiliate her, to throw in her face all his acts of kindness, his sacrifices, the trinkets he had given her, and extravagances—the box at the São Carlos, and the dedication of his love. Unable to contain himself, he went back to the dining-room, his lips loaded with accusations. She was still there, but on her feet now, wiping her eyes and gazing blankly at the building opposite, as he had done. Her lovely profile was suffused with light and the soft line of her dress emphasised the gracefulness of her figure. At once, he felt that words were drying up in his mouth.
He could find no opening for his strictures and, at the other window, furiously twirled his moustache, his heart in torment and his lips unable to utter a word. At last, an absurd idea came out of his romantic indecision. He threw the bracelet on to the table and exclaimed:
‘Put that in your suitcase, too: I bought it for you today, it is yet another present. . .’
Instinctively she glanced at the bracelet box. Then she began to weep again. These silent tears annoyed him, unnerved him:
‘Why do you keep on crying? Whose fault is it? It isn’t mine, for I have never denied you anything.’
Then there was a scene. As he paced about the room, he cast up at her, in a quick low voice, all his tenderness, all his devotion. She lowered herself into a chair, weeping all the while; it seemed that she must go on for ever weeping like that.
‘Oh, do stop weeping,’ he exclaimed. ‘Say something, explain. . . Have you nothing to say by way of excuse? Was it you who sought all this, was it you who provoked him? . . .’
Still seated, she quickly looked up. Through her tears, a light shone in her eyes, and eagerly, like someone putting out a hand to avoid falling, she blamed Machado. It had been he, he alone had been to blame. It had all begun four months earlier, when Godofredo had taken her to the Dona Maria. And Machado had begun it, talking to her, tempting her and writing to her; he would turn up when Godofredo was at the office, and one day, in the end, almost by force. . .
‘I swear to you that was how it was. . . I did not seek it, I always pleaded with him. . . Then I was afraid that Margarida would hear the noise. . .’
Alves listened to all this, his face livid.
‘Let me see his letters,’ he said at last, in a voice that was barely audible.
‘I haven’t got them. . .’
He took a step across the room, saying ‘I shall find them.’
She got up with a cry, putting her arms round him. ‘I swear I haven’t got them. As God may save me, I gave them all back to him, days ago.’
He pushed her to one side, went to the dressing-table. As it happened, the bunch of keys was on the marble top, among the little bottles. And he began a frantic search among the handkerchiefs, the lace, the boxes of fans, a woman’s personal things. Repeatedly she clutched his arm, swore to him that she had no letters. But he silently persisted, pushing her away and ransacking the drawer. An ivory fan broke in pieces as it fell; the beads of a rosary, with its crucifix, lay on the floor.
And just when it seemed that she was telling him the truth, he saw the bundle of letters, tied with a silk ribbon, between two brushes and foolishly exposed to his gaze right from the start. He tore the bundle apart, separated them; they were not from him. The first he opened began: ‘My angel’. He put them quietly in his pocket, turned towards her as she remained prostrate at the bedside and said:
‘Get ready to go this very day.’
He went back to his study, and there he read the letters, one by one. Nothing could have been more fatuous, with the continual repetition of conventional and banal expressions: ‘My beloved angel, why did not God arrange that we should meet long ago?’ ‘My love, do you realise that I would give my life for you?’ And even: ‘Oh, that I might
have been allowed to bear your son. . .’
And every phrase smote his heart like a silent blow that knocked him out. One in particular infuriated him, as it began: ‘My soul’s darling, what an afternoon that was yesterday. . .’
So then, his pen almost tearing the paper, he quickly wrote the letter to his father-in-law, a few simple words—that he had found his wife with a man, and wished him to come and get her, take her away. Otherwise, he would put her out of the house like a whore, indifferent to what fate might befall her. In a postscript, he added that he would be going out between five and seven—so asked him to take advantage of this absence and come and get his daughter. He put the letter in his pocket, buttoned his jacket, rubbed his silk hat on his sleeve and went out.
On the staircase, he met a youth in a white apron, with a basket on his arm.
The Yellow Sofa Page 2